Not until the mare refused obedience did Rowland begin to suspect who had followed him.  Then a vague recollection of something Richard had said the night he carried him home to Raglan, crossed his mind, and he grew furious.  But in vain he struggled with the mare, and all the time Richard kept ploughing on towards him.  At length he saw Rowland take a pistol from his holster.  Instinctively Richard did the same, and when he saw him raise the butt-end to strike her on the head, firmed—­and missed, but saved Lady the blow, and ere Rowland recovered from the start it gave him to hear the bullet whistle past his ear, uttered another equally peculiar but different cry.  Lady reared, plunged, threw her heels in the air, emptied her saddle, and came flying to Richard.

But now arose a fresh anxiety:-what if Bishop should, as was most likely, attack the mare?  At her master’s word, however, she stood, a few yards off, and with arched neck and forward-pricked ears, waited, while Bishop, moved possibly with admiration of the manner in which she had unseated her rider, scanned her with no malign aspect.

By this time Rowland had got upon his feet, and mindful of his duty, hopeful also that Richard would be content with his prize, set off as hard as he could run for a gap he spied in the hedge.  But in a moment Bishop, followed by Lady, had headed him.

‘Thou wert better cry quarter,’ said Richard.

The reply was a bullet, that struck Bishop below the ear.  He stood straight up, gave one yell, and tumbled over.  Scudamore ran towards the mare, hoping to catch her and be off ere the roundhead could recover himself.  But, although Bishop had fallen on his leg, Richard was unhurt.  He lay still and watched.  Lady seemed bewildered, and Rowland coming softly up, seized her bridle, and sprung into the saddle.  The same moment Richard gave his cry a second time, and again up went Rowland in the air, and Lady came trotting daintily to her master, scared, but obedient.  Rowland fell on his back, and before he came to himself, Richard had drawn his leg from under his slain charger, and his sword from its sheath.  And now first he perceived who his antagonist was, and a pang went to his heart at the remembrance of his father’s words.

‘Mr. Scudamore,’ he cried, ’I would thou hadst not stolen my mare, so that I might fight with thee in a Christian fashion.’

‘Roundhead scoundrel!’ gasped Scudamore, wild with wrath.  ’Thy unmannerly varlet tricks shall cost thee dear.  Thou a soldier?  A juggler with a mountebank jade—­a vile hackney which thou hast taught to caper!  A soldier indeed!’

‘A soldier and seatless!’ returned Richard.  ’A soldier and rail!  A soldier and steal my mare, then shoot my horse!  Bah! an’ the rest were like thee, we might take the field with dog-whips.’

Scudamore drew a pistol from his belt, and glanced towards the mare.